Irony
by Ariana Malfoy- Lestrange
Summary: Because, you know, it just makes me so angry sometimes, the irony of being. The irony of loving him, then losing him without so much as a warning, without a goodbye. The irony of loving him more now, when’s he gone, than when he was here.'HGRW


Author's Notes: Look! I finally wrote something, I'm sorry...I've been neglecting my other updates, promise I'll get to them very soon. Anyways, look! A one-shot solely based on R/Hr! Amazing, I know. :D This little angst is dedicated to FBF, the best R/Hr authoress ever, and the rest of the R/Hr shippers around the world...there is no R/Hr angst in the fanfiction world, not permanently anyways. Review please! And for the people who tend to cry...here's some tissues.

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Irony- noun. Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs; witty language used to convey insults or scorn; a trope that involves incongruity between what is expected and what occurs.

The definition of irony is clear. It's something that you don't expect to happen, didn't expect to happen, and never in your right mind expected to happen.

There I go again. Letting the anger and the grief get the best of me, which I know, from reading various psychological Muggle books, is not good for my recovery period.

But it's so hard, you know? I mean it's the hardest thing I have ever gone through, and ever will go through...and it's not even the fact that I loved him, and lost him, it's the bloody irony of it all, the irony that tears at my soul everyday, the irony that consumes me, the irony that drags me down, the irony that makes me laugh bitterly, and cry freely.

We had such a bright future together. What, it must have only been about two or three years out of Hogwarts? After the Great War...we both survived. We were engaged, for Merlin's sake, and we had just bought a nice flat together...and Ron was just finishing his Auror training, and I was going through my third year of Healer school.

It's the irony of it all that just really gets me. The irony of the book of life, written by someone long dead; the irony of writing about something beautiful, when there is ugliness all around; the irony of writing about sight, when you are blind. The irony of writing about love, when you can love no more, oh, that's the greatest of them all, that it is.

Because, you know, it just makes me so angry sometimes, the irony of being. The irony of loving him, then losing him without so much as a warning, without a goodbye. The irony of loving him more now, when's he gone, than when he was here.

Don't get me wrong- I loved Ronald Weasley, I really did. I loved him with every inch of myself, and I loved him for a long time. When we finally got together in sixth year, it was like it was meant to be. Of course, we still had our infamous squabbles- but what good relationship doesn't? And then...going through all those Dark times in seventh year...and finally, triumphing, and winning the war. It was amazing we even survived, with all those near-death experiences that we seemed to attract. After the war, it was like bliss. He proposed to me, in such a Ron-like way, in the middle of a fight, that I remember glaring at him for an instant, then jumping into his arms.

And it was like heaven for quite a while. Sometimes we would just lie on our backs, and watch the night sky, and talk lazily about the future. I wanted to become a Healer- he wanted to complete Auror training, stay an Auror for a little, and then move on to perhaps being Keeper for the Cannons. We both wanted children, and he teased me about how he was going to be a stay-at-home-father. I didn't say anything; just smiled- after all, Ron would make a great stay-at-home dad.

Would've.

But then the unthinkable happened, on a cool August morning. Two on the run Death Eaters...they got into the flat right after I left for Healer school. A duel followed...and within the space of two words, Ronald Bilius Weasley was pronounced dead.

The first thing I remember about it is the calmness of it all. Like I was floating away, without really thinking, or knowing what I was doing. I remember telling a shaken, and horribly, and rightly so anguished Harry that I was perfectly fine. I remember staying with Cho, and reminiscing about him. I remember getting up at his funeral, and giving a half an hour-long speech on him, without so much as shedding a single tear.

Like you can define life, with all it's joys, and tears, in a half an hour.

I remember looking at him, in his casket, with his glazed, cold, unfeeling eyes, eyes, which I had once loved so much, and still do. I remember watching the coffin lower into the ground, heaped by tulips, which he loved, and I loved, because he loved.

Then I remember going home to our flat, unlocking the door, and hanging up my cloak.

"I'm home, Ron." I called, then remembered that he wasn't home, that he would never be home, not ever again.

And that's when it hit me. All at once. That's the second thing I most clearly remember about it all- the pain, and the intensity of the pain, the hurt that flooded me, reeled my senses, overwhelmed me, and almost killed me. I remember kneeling on the worn carpet, and rocking back and forth, and crying, and crying, and crying.

I couldn't stop crying.

And now, even though the tears have stopped, I still think that he's still here, sometimes. Like when I'm making bouillabaisse, I'll shout for him to come and help me, to make sure it simmers just right- then I remember he's not here to help me watch the shellfish soup simmer just right. And then, usually, I have to sit down for a little, and put my hand over my eyes, and cry unseen, invisible tears, and remind myself to breathe in and out...in and out...in and out...in and out.

I miss him so much, I can't even begin to describe.

It's just so ironic- he wasn't supposed to die. Not yet, not this early. Oh, no, we would die within minutes of each other, when we were old and wrinkled, surrounded by our many great-grandchildren, loving each other till the end.

If you think about it really- irony is just another word. It doesn't amount to much, not in the bigger scope of things. I mean, yes it was ironic that the one whom he tried to destroy destroyed Voldemort, it was ironic that in "The Most Dangerous Game", the hunter turned hunted, but it isn't that important of a word. Not to the overall story.

However, irony, in the smaller picture, irony when the definition of it means to crumble all your dreams like dust, in that sense, the word 'irony' means so much more, and hurts all the more as well.

Sometimes it just chokes me, you know? The irony of the situation, I mean. It suffocates me, and I bottle it up, and sometimes I can't breathe, because of it.

In and out...in and out...in and out...in and out...in and out...

So when that happens, I go visit Luna. I have a mocha latte. I read War and Peace. And sometimes, I'll go into the small hall closet, and take his old maroon dress robes, and just hold them up to my cheek, feeling the softness of the fabric, and his scent that has never left them yet. And then I'll just take one big deep breath, in that dusty little closet, and inhale mothballs, and cedar wood, calmness, and _him_.

I've just begun to learn how to breathe again.

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Author's Notes:

Well? What did you think?


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